


Dialect

by MsEllieJane



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lorca's accent, takes place between ep 10 and 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 19:00:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13394208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsEllieJane/pseuds/MsEllieJane
Summary: There was a twang to his words as of late that was markedly different from what she was used to hearing from him. This fascinated her.





	Dialect

**Author's Note:**

> I noticed that Jason Isaacs really brought out Lorca's southern accent in episode 11 and this intrigued me so much that I had to write a fic about it. This takes place between episodes 10 and 11, so you won't see any of the mayhem that happens later. Many thanks to SourBlueMilk for the beta read!

Michael knew she didn’t have much time. After sauntering down to the brig in hopes of giving her Captain a reprieve from endless pain, she had to make a big production of wanting to administer some personalized punishment. She did her best to sell it, grabbing the slumped man by the collar and giving him a few slaps across the face that he barely seemed to be aware of. She said she would bring him back in a few hours, knowing that any longer would be suspicious.

After Ash roughly dragged him back to her quarters, she dismissed him. To his credit, Ash left without complaint, following orders as he had during their time in this place. She helped Lorca to the bed and removed his coat and shoes as gently as possible. He tried at times to speak but his voice was so rough and shaky that she shushed him, telling him to sleep first. He didn’t question her giving him orders, curling up on the bed as though to make himself as small as possible. She covered him with blankets and stood by, watching him until his ragged breaths slowed.

She set her chronometer to three hours, wishing she could give him more time to rest. She spent the time alternating between gathering files on the Defiant and staring pensively out the window. At times, she felt despair creeping up her spine and threatening to spill from her eyes. She clenched her fists and squeezed her eyes shut, driving it away by sheer force of will. Seeing her Captain in so much pain and being unable to help beyond a few hours of reprieve was maddening. She wanted to heal his wounds, but knew she couldn’t. If anything, she would have to bring him back to the brig with new damage, a thought that made her nauseous.

When the alarm on the chronometer went off, she reluctantly went to wake him. She gently put a hand on his shoulder and he jerked awake suddenly, moving into a defensive position, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. She tried to soothe him as much as he could.

“Captain, it’s just me, Michael. You are in my quarters.” She wished she could say that he was safe and that everything would be ok, but that was a lie she didn’t have the heart to tell. He slowly relaxed and got up from the bed and she guided him to the table where a glass of water awaited. He sat down and carefully drank the water, holding himself back from drinking it too quickly.

“Do you want something to eat? I can replicate you anything you want.” It took him a moment to answer, and his voice was rough and accented as he spoke.

“Just a ration bar. Anything more and I’ll just throw it all up when they put me back in there.”

She nodded, shoving away thoughts of how horrific this situation was, and replicated a ration bar with the highest nutrient concentration she could find. She immediately erased the record of her order and brought it to him. He ate in that same careful manner, holding himself back from wolfing it down. These were the actions of a man who had known suffering and deprivation and she found herself wanting to know the details of how he came to be this way. Instead, she focused on something more innocuous. There was a twang to his words as of late that was markedly different from what she was used to hearing from him. This fascinated her.

“Captain, I noticed something about your accent since we’ve been here. I barely noticed it before on the Discovery, but it has become more pronounced. Why is that?”

“Stress,” he said simply and paused to take a bite. “Stress always brings it out. Speaking with others from where I grew up sometimes has the same effect.” His voice still shook, but less intensely than before.

“Where did you grow up, if you don’t mind me asking?” She knew the answer, had read his publicly available personnel file as soon as she arrived on Discovery, but was still curious about his accent.

“A colony on Atlas III, you are probably familiar with it.” She was, it housed a major ship-building and propulsion-testing facility.

“The place has an interesting history you might not know about,” he continued. “Many of the first colonists were experts in their fields and came from some of the major hubs for spacecraft design and propulsion system development in North America. These included Huntsville, Houston, and Cape Canaveral, all places associated with space travel development since the mid-20th century.”

He paused and went into a coughing fit, so she brought him another glass of water. After a few sips, he continued.

“They also happened to be locations with distinct regional dialects. When they left to colonize Atlas III, they brought those dialects with them and over time they all fused together into what you are hearing right now.” Again he paused, drinking more water.

“When I left home to attend the academy, I worked pretty hard to get rid of the accent. It wasn’t out of shame, I just didn’t want others to assume I knew rocket science when I obviously didn’t. I wanted to be judged by my own merits, not by first impressions. It was probably foolish, looking back.”

“I don’t think it was,” she countered. “I understand the effect first impressions can have, particularly to one’s detriment.”

“I suppose you do, Burnham,” he said with the barest of chuckles. They sat in silence for a few more minutes as he finished the ration bar and water. When he finished, he placed his hand over hers and squeezed lightly.

“Thank you for this, Burnham.” She nodded, not sure how to reply. She brought him his coat and shoes and helped him dress. She could tell that he wanted to swat her hands away but was too exhausted to refuse the help.

Once he was dressed, she paged Ash, who arrived promptly to return him to the brig. She appreciated the care Ash took as he snapped the restraints back on the Captain, trying to be as gentle as possible.

“Wait!” she said, remembering that she needed to return him with some sort of evidence of her “personal attention”. The idea of hurting him any way brought bile up her throat, so she went with the other option. As Ash held him in place, she briskly rubbed her hands through his hair to mess it up. Swallowing roughly, she carefully placed kisses on his neck and face, leaving copious evidence of her dark lipstick on him.

To both of their credits, Lorca and Ash remained stoic as she did this, knowing exactly why she had to. She told him to bite his own lips and he did, leaving them slightly swollen. After looking him over and determining that the guards would make the appropriate assumptions based on his appearance, she nodded at Ash to take him away.

“For what it’s worth Captain, I like the accent,” she said, unsure as to why she said it. He responded with the barest of nods and Ash began to escort him from the room.

Once alone, Michael found herself shaking uncontrollably. She curled up on her bed in much the same way her Captain had, wrapping her arms around herself and thinking of stillness. After what felt like an eternity, she drifted off to sleep.


End file.
